Evening Tea

The heavy glass door closed behind me with a loud clunk as I emerged from the indoors setting my cup of cinnamon tea on the grey metal table, steam rising from it. I sat down and took in the nighttime. The pink light pollution from Chicago spilling into the blackness of the edge of the suburbs. I watched as the cloud of pink every now and again illuminated. The only sounds to be heard were the occasional splash on the pond a short distance from the house, the droning loop of the traffic far off, and the crickets. The temperature was just right, slightly warm. Overhead, the occasional flashing lights of passing planes flew south east and north east. Depressing thoughts of earlier events swam through my mind like the muskrats that occupy the pond, but I do my best to ignore them by imaging writing this. The very words you see pass through my head as I stare at the illuminating pink cloud. A sound grew near. It came closer and closer. It was the sound of a soft white noise and when it reached me I began to feel the cool drops hit my bare arms. I grabbed my mug of tea from the top booking the rain from entering. Leaving my chair, I open the door to the inside and again, the door closes with a loud clunk.